


With a Pure Heart Fervently (See That Ye Love One Another)

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Christianity, Pride, Protection, implied anti-queer sentiment, ineffable husbands, the Almighty definitely ships it, the flaming sword
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 05:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19784407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: “Anyway,” Crowley says, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up sooner. It’s literally a giant festival about love, figured it would be right up your alley.”Or, no cops at Pride, just Crowley and his sword-wielding husband.





	With a Pure Heart Fervently (See That Ye Love One Another)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theparadigmshifts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadigmshifts/gifts), [ruthieless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruthieless/gifts).



“Now that’s odd,” Aziraphale mutters, frowning at the sword that had definitely not been stashed under this stack of papers when he piled them on the bookshop’s counter the night before.

“Cool sword, Mr. Fell. What is that, a gladius?” The young woman on the other side of the counter isn’t a customer—Aziraphale still excels at thwarting the desires of actual customers—but a graduate student, which is completely different. They respect the books, their requests are blessedly specific, and, most importantly, they are too dead-ass broke to even think about taking his precious books away from him in exchange for currency. As far as he is concerned, they are welcome to sit in his shop and read all day, provided their hands are clean. He doesn’t want to _hide_ his books from The Public so much as he doesn’t _trust_ The Public with his books. Graduate students, especially the ones studying what Crowley likes to call “Old Bollocks”, understand this.

“Something to that effect, Miriam. Find what you need?”

“Yes, thank you so much,” she says, handing over a volume of the more shocking variety of Victorian pornography (which, considering the resting baseline of Victorian pornography in general, is really saying something). “I can always count on you when I need to find the weird stuff.”

“Happy to help, dear girl.”

(Mr. Fell is the only person Miriam has met who can get away with calling people “dear” anything without it being creepy in the slightest. He also hadn’t batted an eye when, after several years of knowing her by one name she did her undergraduate degree, Miriam had explained that she had a different name now, and shiny new pronouns to boot.

“How _lovely_ ,” he’d said. “I’ve known several Miriams in my time and they were all frightfully brave women. I am so proud of you, dear girl. Now, you asked me last time about photographs—”)

“Are you and the husband coming to Pride on Saturday?”

Aziraphale glances down at the sword. “Oh. We haven’t talked about it, but it’s entirely possible.”

“Well, I’ll be there with some friends, so if you do come, give us a shout if you see us.”

Aziraphale flips the shop’s sign to CLOSED as soon as Miriam leaves, then returns to contemplating the sword. There’s a note tucked under the hilt, written in a language so old it won’t be found in any of the books he lets the humans see, as it predates both books and humans. _No need to sign for it_ , the note reads.

“God Almighty,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his temples.

“What’s She done now?” asks Crowley from the front doorway, where he stands with a bag of takeout from their favorite Chinese place.

Aziraphale holds up the sword by way of answer.

“Well. That’s. Well.”

“Quite. Did you get pork buns?”

“You ask that as if we haven’t been married for several thousand years,” Crowley answers, setting the takeout on the counter and leaning in to kiss his husband.

“Neither of us _knew_ we were married for most of those years,” Aziraphale points out several minutes later. “It seems dangerous to make assumptions.”

“Yes, I got pork buns.”

“Good. I’ll think better after I’ve eaten.”

They’re sitting on opposite sides of the sofa, legs stretched out and tangled together. Crowley is absentmindedly stroking Aziraphale’s thigh with his foot, and it’s making the angel’s brain go a bit fuzzy. They’ve started in on their second bottle of wine before Aziraphale brings up the sword.

“I just hope it doesn’t mean we have to deal with anything serious again. Good Lord, it’s only been a year. My nerves can’t handle it.”

“When exactly did you notice the sword?”

“Right before Miriam asked me if we’re going to Pride. Speaking of which, are we going to Pride?”

“Might need to, now that a sword’s materialized right before someone mentions it to you.”

“Do you think they’re connected?”

Crowley tilts his head to the side; the only word for the expression on his face is _tender._ “I think you’ve always used that sword to protect people.”

“And people at Pride certainly need protecting,” Aziraphale muses. “Always counter-protesters at these things, aren’t there.”

“And cops don’t exactly make it better.”

“Excellent point.”

“Anyway,” Crowley says, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up sooner. It’s literally a giant festival about love, figured it would be right up your alley.”

Aziraphale beams at him. “I suppose it is. And I’m sure there will be wiles to thwart.”

“Our own side, angel,” Crowley reminds him.

“For old times’ sake,” Aziraphale says.

“Downstairs never had a problem with Pride. It’s got the same name as one of the Big Seven.”

“That’s not what it’s about at all.”

“ _I_ know that. Just didn’t see a reason to disabuse Downstairs of the notion.”

“Wait, did you get a commendation for Pride?”

“Yep.”

“That’s funny, so did I.”

They stroll over to Portland Place on Saturday turned out in their finest: white linen suit and rainbow bow tie for Aziraphale, plus the sword, disguised as a silver-topped cane identical to the one he’d had in the 1880s; tight trousers and crop top for Crowley. Aziraphale’s doing his best not to get distracted by all that beautiful skin, but between the clothes and the fact that Crowley’s been letting his hair get long again, Aziraphale is definitely looking forward to going home after the parade and having his husband for dessert.

“My old stomping grounds,” Aziraphale murmurs as they walk, Crowley’s arm laced through his.

“This is where you learned the gavotte, isn’t it?”

“You were asleep, I needed a hobby.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s drawing in a lungful of fresh country breezes instead of the warm, smoke-tinged concoction that passes for air during a London summer. “Can you feel that, darling? Love, pouring out of everything. Everyone.”

“Yes, angel, I feel it. Not exactly everyone, though.”

Crowley gives him a soft nudge and Aziraphale notices the signs, and then the people. There aren’t many of them, but that doesn’t matter. Aziraphale’s mouth hardens into the tight line Crowley has taken to calling his “smiting face”. Crowley can tell he’s debating exactly what to set on fire and how big he should make the inciting explosion; before Aziraphale can decide, however, Crowley snaps his fingers and the signs are suddenly covered in flowers, cruel words half-covered by various shades of purple and yellow. Crowley glares at them— _grow better_ —and they flourish before his eyes, covering every inch of writing, twining themselves around the wrists of bewildered protesters.

Aziraphale lets out a surprised laugh. “Pansies, my dear? Bit on the nose, that.”

“My _darling angel_ ,” Crowley drawls, “nobody comes to Pride for the _restraint_.”

It’s a splendid time. They do run into Miriam and her friends and get extraordinarily drunk with them—“The things I could tell you about Christopher Marlowe,” Crowley says, his voice dragging slightly with intoxication. “And Shakespeare, I promise you, that man was queer as the day is long.” (All of Miriam’s friends think that Crowley is expressing opinions rather than facts, except Simone, who is an early modernist and wishes she had a way to surreptitiously take notes. Both she and Miriam have spent too much time at Fell’s to think there is anything remotely normal about the proprietor or his husband; in fact, were Aziraphale and Crowley to tell them the Entire Truth, they would nod and say, “That tracks.” Also, Miriam would owe Simone ten quid.)

Aziraphale never actually uses the sword, but it’s comforting to have it by his side, lending weight to his moral argument. He places it back under the stack of papers when they get home, and when he comes down the next morning, hair still gloriously disheveled thanks to the clever fingers of the demon who’s gone back to sleep, it’s nowhere to be found.

They go to London Pride every year after that, and start to add other cities to their festivities. The sword always appears before they leave, though whoever is sending it to them has an odd sense of humor about where they put it. Crowley finds it in the refrigerator before they leave for Scotland.

“The Piskys are here!” Aziraphale exclaims, shortly after they arrive at the Glasgow celebration.

“The pixies?”

“Piskys, the Scottish Episcopalians.”

“What’s that sign say? Can’t quite make it out.”

“‘This is a gay that the Lord has made.’”

“I have to give it to them, it’s both clever and accurate.”

“They’re doing your city proud, my dear.”

Edinburgh’s equally lovely, except for a clergyman in cassock and collar with a sign that says _Pride is a Deadly Sin_.

“Shall we toss for the honors?” Aziraphale asks, producing a coin.

“Still nowhere close to my ear. And why would we toss? Clergy, he’s one of yours.”

“Anthony Crowley, you of all occult beings know that is absolutely _not_ a given. May I remind you who got Torquemada?”

“Don’t ruin a perfectly good day with the Inquisition. Fine, yes, toss you, I call tails.”

“You would.”

“I’m going to make you pay for that later.”

“Mmm, can’t wait. Tails, you win. Go educate him on the true meaning of the Seven Deadlies, my dear. Don’t know why you’d want me to do it, you’re the greater expert.”

“That is a factually incorrect statement and you know it, just like you know that I think your smiting face is kind of sexy.”

Aziraphale smirks, grabs his husband’s ass, and pulls him in for a kiss before he saunters over to the priest.

“Oh, my poor, misguided friend,” Crowley hisses, slinging an arm around the priest’s shoulder. “Let’s clear up some misconceptions.”

The sign explodes in a bang of smoke and sparks.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale tells Crowley afterward, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Couldn’t resist.”

Sometimes they stand in one place with a sign that says _Honorary Queer Uncle Hugs_. They both throw so much love into their embraces that the humans are at risk of temporary incapacitation via occult and ethereal affection. Crowley finds himself telling the people who come to him everything he wishes someone had said to him, Before. _I’m so proud of you, you’re doing great, keep asking questions._ Aziraphale is absolutely profligate with the blessings and doesn’t give a damn what Heaven thinks, if Heaven even notices. (Someone definitely notices, and Someone is very proud.)

On very rare occasions, Aziraphale has to use the sword. The cane transforms, the flames erupt, and he puts his body between people and the people who want to hurt them. The people who want to do the hurting are never quite sure, later, what they saw or what exactly happened, but they always end up somewhere very far away, in a considerable state of discomfort. One Aziraphale has decided, he’s Decided. It’s called the Sword of Righteousness for a fucking reason.

More often, though, Aziraphale watches humans put themselves in front of the other humans who need protection. That’s when he stands back, ensures that things don’t get out of hand, and lets the children take care of each other. He feels Crowley take his hand, feels the love that washes over them. The world is terrible and good and merciful and full of beauty, and it is theirs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [sungmee](https://sungmee.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for sharing their Pride experiences with me, particularly the bit about the pansies.
> 
> I am indebted to [this tumblr post](https://dragtimdrake.tumblr.com/post/185791749070/we-all-know-that-aziraphale-hates-customers-but-i) for Aziraphale's attitude toward grad students.
> 
> The bit about the Piskys and their sign is based on photos from Glasgow Pride several years ago. Good job, Piskys.
> 
> The title is from 1 Peter, specifically the translation used in Samuel Sebastian Wesley's anthem "Blessed Be the God and Father".


End file.
